


Always Be Brave In The Shadows

by JDylah_da_Kylah



Series: Hope Was A Word, Just A Glimmer Of The Blade [5]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: (but not really?), Accidental Plot, Crack Treated Seriously, Depends on how you look at it, Dialogue Heavy, Family Secrets, Force Ghost Qui-Gon Jinn, Gen, I Don't Even Know, Investigations, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Original Character(s), Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Prostitution, Protectiveness, Searching for Information, Undue Seriousness, What Was I Thinking?, hard truths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-02-29 01:58:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18768850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JDylah_da_Kylah/pseuds/JDylah_da_Kylah
Summary: While on an annual bartering-trip, Obi-Wan is startled to discover the presence of troopers in Mos Eisley--and in the most unexpected of places. But they aren't clones--and unravelingthatmystery leads him to another, darker, truth.Meanwhile, eight-year-old Luke tries to follow in his father's footsteps as an aspiring pilot--to a lesser degree of success--so it's Obi-Wan to the rescue. Again--and much to Owen's chagrin.The darkness of the Empire has fallen over Tatooine at last.Or: "May you grow to stand as a man, love,With the pride of your family and name.”





	Always Be Brave In The Shadows

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Sweetest Days](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11553531) by [Aurae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurae/pseuds/Aurae). 



> Inspired . . . indirectly, but goodness is their story fantastic. Please go give it a read and some love. <3
> 
> From Thymesis' fic I got the idea of there being brothels on Tatooine (of course there would be; I just never thought about it), and equally the idea of Obi-Wan ending up in one. From there the connection ends . . . but I wanted to give credit where credit was due, because their story planted the seed. (Except the seed grew into something that wasn't on the packet, which I guess is just as well.)
> 
> Their story isn't "crack," of course--far, far from it--but the initial idea that sprang to my mind most definitely was.
> 
> And then, well, more seriously I got to wondering how Obi-Wan finds out not only that the troopers aren't clones anymore, but--most importantly--that Vader's still alive. To what extent does knowing so influence his desire / resolve to train Luke, and subsequently escalate the conflict between himself and Owen?
> 
> Massive headcanon, of course. Ever and always. It's not _necessary_ to have read ["One Secret Meant To Keep You Safe"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18301763), but this does reference events from that. :)
> 
> Title, "Or" and otherwise are from ["Lullaby for a Soldier"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yask9aL1ywk) by Dillon O'Brian (sung here by Maggie Siff):
> 
> "May your dreams bring you peace in the darkness,  
> May you always rise over the rain.  
> May the light from above always lead you to love . . .  
> May you always be brave in the shadows  
> till the sun shines upon you again. . . .
> 
> May you grow to stand as a man, love.  
> With the pride of your family and name . . ."
> 
> Thoughts and comments are ever and always deeply appreciated! <3 Thank you so much for reading, and I do hope you enjoy!

Darkness is savage and sly: it lurks in the shadows, breeds on everything from fear and rage to tainted hopes and vicious dreams and bides its time, for light can be so terribly fragile.

* * *

The suns are directly overhead and shade drops beneath objects like dark mirrors. The air is dry and thin, bearing a different kind of stifling heat; what little breeze whines through the open streets does little to cool the sweat-soaked brow of the man who slips from shadow to twinned shadow. Not for the first time does Obi-Wan miss having the cowl of his Master’s robe drawn over his eyes, but the Force flows around him and _deepens_ the light, easing the glare.

The trip to Mos Eisley has been less than productive; he came with trinkets and a handful of Republic credits, useless as he knew they’d be, hoping to barter for a restock of shelf-stable rations. They’re little better than field-fare from the war, but a welcome change from the stews he’s managed to concoct. Still—neither trinkets nor credits have proved useful, and ruefully he reflects that after eight years on a planet, he _might_ have gotten the hang of what doesn’t quite amount to trade so much as a constant contest of wills.

But eight years is a misleading measure of time. Much of it is spent as far away from settlements as possible, after all, except for skulking around the Lars’ homestead, scouring the perimeters of their moisture farm. Occasionally his travels will take him deep into the Dune Sea, if rumors reach him that the Jawas have something they’re willing to trade for protection, but no . . . the ways of Tatooine are nearly still as foreign to him now as when he first brought Luke to his family.

He is about to turn and make for the outskirts when a flash of white, unnaturally bright, catches the corner of his eye. A shift, a glance—and an intense foreboding settles over him, snuffing the heat from the day and sending a shiver through his bones; sweat-sodden as he is, it feels almost like a fever . . . Would that it were only that: a fever-sight . . .

His mouth runs dry and tremors wrack his frame; images claw to the surface of his mind—and names—but all the faces are the same—and then, too, the sights and sounds that aren’t—just _aren’t_ —but bidden from memories come—the hum of his lightsaber cast almost to a keening cry as he deflects hailstorms of blaster-fire—his hands slick with blood (his or another’s? Does it matter?)—taking off a cracked helmet that a dying man might see the sky one final time—feeling the pulse beat out at a throat (soldier or civilian?), feeling the _essence_ of them ebbing, _gone_ , within the Force—

Teeth clenched over a wordless cry, he sways—

_< Obi-Wan.>_

_< Master—>_

And something, _something_ blessedly sweet and familiar flows through him, wraps itself around him, near to form as energy could be . . . Qui-Gon’s arms, the quiet strength of him . . . the thrum of the Force coaxing a measured breath from his lungs, stilling the rapid tattoo of his heart, bringing at last his eyes back into focus . . . not a one of the passers-by so much as offers him a glance . . . And when some measure of clarity returns, when the shaking stills . . .

_< Listen, Padawan . . .>_

 . . . the whisper of his Master, faint, carried as much in the wind-kicked grains of sand as any thought within his head. Obi-Wan bows his head, inhaling once, deeply, releasing with the breath the spike of utter disbelief that he’d just seen a trooper in Mos Eisley . . . and with that, not forgotten, not lost to him for the war, his training rises to the forefront of his consciousness: the ability to pick up every detail, to catch decibels of conversation, to recollect it all in an instant, with the Force sharpening his senses until he all but loses himself and _becomes_ his surroundings—

There are two of them, as it turns out, and they are not clones. Although their helmets distort their voices, neither carry Jango’s lilting song upon their tongues. Their steps are not his; their stance, their mannerisms—there is even an inch or so difference between their heights, despite their helmets giving the illusion of near-facsimile. Obi-Wan slips from one shadow to the next, across a narrow alley, keeping himself hidden in plain sight—

And—

They have just exited an unmarked building well-known to locals as a brothel, if passing conversations in the cantina have told him anything.

_Well then._

Pursuing them will offer him nothing, if not potential danger; he wonders, briefly, from whence they came and to where they return—most disturbing of which is the possibility that the Empire has at last reached its hand for Tatooine, and these white-armored men are the long-stretched shadows of its fingertips. Reflexively he slips deeper into the living Force, casting aside the sand and the stones and the harried, desperate beings milling about the streets, focusing solely on the troopers . . . They are jarring, giddy eddies: little whirlpools of contradictions: fear, boredom, a slight degree of intoxication—apparently they’ve paid the cantina a visit; fancy that—and a very particular strain of satisfaction that brings a flush of embarrassment to Obi-Wan’s cheeks.

And through that searching he finds familiar threads—the presence, ever and always, of Qui-Gon—the flicker of light at his side; the unifying, cosmic Force with a hand on his shoulder.

_< Do you sense anything else, Master?>_

There is a subtle uncertainty, a pause, and in the space of a blink, Obi-Wan can see Qui-Gon’s brows drawn together, the fine lines along his forehead deepening to furrows—an expression he often adopted in life when puzzling through information that Jocasta relayed from the Archives. Once, perhaps, he’d have been reprimanded with a gentle word, been pressed to share what _he_ felt through the living Force, to both broaden and deepen his immersion and perceptions—

Not so now.

The flicker of a smile between them, the briefest reflection on how far they have come, before Qui-Gon’s voice reaches him, a hand outheld:

_< I see two young men who are far from home. Twenty years old, perhaps. Five, six years they’ve spent in service to the Empire—recruits—and not so long gone that they’ve forgotten their families . . . although I suspect these two are the lucky ones, to have families at all. But I sense nothing to suggest that they’re sent here to find Luke. They’re rank-and-file soldiers, stationed on a backwater world—such as a desert world might be . . ._

_< And so, my Padawan, the Empire has come . . . >_

_< But not for Luke. Not yet. I’ll take that as a blessing.>_

Obi-Wan exhales, idly wishing not for the first time that his Master’s presence within the Force might yield more information. What a paradox—and yet, in the deepest ways, he welcomes it. For moments such as this, it’s almost like having Qui-Gon at his side again—each of them with different skillsets and limitations; each fitting together to form a cohesive whole—

Not everything is known. Perhaps not even to the Force.

* * *

He begins with the cantina, knowing that if drunk beings aren’t the most reliable informants, they’re also the most likely to talk. If he’s lucky, one or both of the troopers will have said something over a cup of _ardees_ that might help piece together what’s going on . . . and if not them, then the travelers who wander through . . .

Day-glare gives way to murk and semi-darkness, comparative silence to the jarring caucophony of a dozen languages. Some lone, spindly soul sits at the bar, a strange instrument rested on his thigh, braced acgainst his shoulder; lithe fingers dance across a series of keys and the strangest aura seems to fill the room: sound at the edges of hearing: light at the edges of sight. Not unlike ripples, suggestions, through the Force—and yet _entirely_ unlike—

Obi-Wan shakes his head, bewildered. No music for a bar is this—nor is he sure it’s music—

His gaze catches the barkeep’s, briefly, before the Force all but points to a shadowed table in the corner where a Human and two Rodians are sitting amidst a mountain of pazaak cards and several empty glasses, dour looks strung across their faces.

“Hello there.”

Through thick-lidded, red-rimmed eyes the young man gives him a slothful appraisal, gesturing limply with one hand when he moves to sit down. “Who said you could sit there?”

Obi-Wan offers a small smile, spreading his hands as the Rodians exchange glances, stumbling to their feet, slipping back towards the bar, swaying to the eerie melody of the stranger’s . . . song. “Might I join you, then? Your friends seem to have left.”

The young man grunts, makes a show of draping his arms across the backs of two chairs, putting each foot in two more.

“I regret to inform you that you don’t have _quite_ enough limbs to occupy each seat. Therefore . . .” A nod to the single empty chair. “May I?”

A haughty exhalation, rank with alcohol and spice. “Fine.”

Obi-Wan studies the table for a moment—the scattered cards, the glasses—and then the table’s occupant. “You’ve lost your game.”

“’n’ all my money.” The reality of the situation seems to have stolen the last of the young man’s cogent speech and bravado; he fixes Obi-Wan with a baleful gaze. “What’m I s’posed to do? ’m’al’must outta . . .” He lapses into silence, one last thread of common sense tying up his tongue.

“Tell me—who won the game? Not your friends, surely. They looked just as defeated as you.”

A sharp-shaken negation that must leave the young man’s head and guts spinning; his skin grows pale. “Sold’ers. ’n white a’mor. Like those whaddya’call’ems, from the holos ’f th’ war . . . clones . . . yeah . . . But they’re jus’ like me. Were tellin’ me the money’s good. Hey!” Wide-pupiled eyes suddenly bore into Obi-Wan’s own with a renewed and unsettling focus. “ _Hey_. You think I could join ’em?”

“Who?”

“’ _Em_! Th’ sold’ers. Fight for the Emp’re. Heh. ’s it matter? Them or Jabba. ’n the . . . ‘n my . . .” The young man’s eyes drop, baleful, before he turns away to gaze out a streaked window through which nothing can be seen. “Doesn’ matt’r. They took all my money. Liuth’s, they said. So’s. They’re _real_ happy-like.”

“Liuth?”

“’s all I’m good for, an’way. Me, I’ll take a bolt t’ th’ head someday. ’s it matter if it’s for the Emp’re or one’a Jabba’s, neh?”

Obi-Wan sighs, realizing that he’ll get little more from of the troubled young man. But the words leave an ache in his chest . . . to be so young . . . enslaved to debt, to drugs . . . to be cognizant that violent lives will ever and always end violently. (And even more than a few peaceful ones; after all, what scant number of Jedi had simply lain down to sleep one night and—)

Reflexively he reaches out a hand, his brow furrowed. “You look quite ill. Will you let me help you?”

The Force seems to catch and pool between them, not unkind—if neutral. At his back he senses Qui-Gon; he need not turn to glance, to glimpse, the whisper of light formed into man to know the grimace on his face. The galaxy is full of suffering . . .

_< But you must be cautious, Obi-Wan. The Empire’s not such a distant entity, and even the slightest act of mercy that sets a disturbance through Mos Eisley can draw Palpatine’s attention . . . >_

And the sudden truth of that rocks through him, the realization that drawing on the Force for more than cammouflage or perception could bring trouble down upon him . . . as could giving this man the credits that are all but useless to him now . . . It’s all trouble he cannot risk . . . not now . . . not with Luke untrained and completely ignorant of who he is . . . of what he might become . . .

“Whad’ya tryin’ t’pull?” The young man, clinging somehow to consciousness, slumps in his chair; having turned from the window, he stares at Obi-Wan with bleary eyes.

“Nothing,” he whispers finally, feeling at last, and disconcertingly, as if the strange not-music, the strange not-lights, from that infernal instrument are at last slipping through his defenses. “. . . Nothing. Thank you for the information.”

But as he stands and moves towards the glare of the exit, his hand brushes at a rumpled shoulder. The young man drops his head in his hands and succumbs to what might, just might, be a drunken stupor—or, _perhaps_ , a peaceful sleep, with a strangely-clear head and a steady gut when he wakes.

Small and seemingly insignificant mercies . . .

Obi-Wan slips from the cantina, trading darkness for twin-sunned day again, retracing his steps to the brothel, certain that Liuth’s name would draw him there if he were to stop someone and ask.

* * *

The protocol droid is rusted and ancient; his photoreceptors glow with a pathetic light in the semi-darkness of the lobby. There are a few chairs, nothing more, and beyond the main desk winds a staircase hewn from the same quarried stone as most of the buildings in Mos Eisley—and Obi-Wan’s own dwelling. Near-ancient things, before influxes of settlers brought durasteel and plasticrete and half a dozen other materials.

“Good afternoon, sir.” The droid’s vocabulator produces a nasal, tinned sound, rough around the edges, vowels slipped and consonants elongated into mechanical whines and whirs.

“Good afternoon.” Obi-Wan glances around, entirely uncertain how to go about gleaning information from such an establishment. _At least it’s empty._ A candid glance to the ceiling. _Insofar as I know._ “I . . . have never been here before.”

“How may I be of service?”

“I’m . . . looking for someone in particular. Ah . . . Recommended to me, as it were.”

“Only Liuth is working today.”

Obi-Wan presses his lips into a meager smile, only half-amused at the droid not being whom he was looking for. Droids, after all, can’t lie—although the implications of the droid’s being Liuth (whatever his numeric designation) would have been murky indeed.

“Clients pay by the half-hour.”

“What currencies do you accept?”

“This establishment serves clients from many systems. We are perfectly capable of currency exchange.”

“Even Republic credits?”

The droid is silent for a moment. “While this currency is somewhat outdated, it is still considered legal tender.”

“A half-hour will be . . .” _Fine? Sufficient?_ “That will be all the time I need.”

_. . . worse._

From somewhere in the back of his mind comes the distinct impression that Qui-Gon might be laughing at him. _< Don’t, Master. This is awkward enough as it is.>_

“That will be fifty credits, sir.”

Coins pass between two hands, flesh and alloy, and then the droid turns away to send a signal to the room above.

* * *

_< What makes you think the troopers told Liuth anything worth knowing?>_

_< I don’t know, Master. But . . . _something _drew me here. I have a strong feeling that Liuth has information of some sort . . . if the soldiers said something about the Empire . . . or what’s happened to the clones . . . or why they’re here at all . . . why establish a presence on Tatooine? They have a purpose. >_

 _< But . . . coming _here _? >_

_< Valuable information can come from the most unlikely sources. Well enough you taught me, Master. Besides . . . I suppose if drugs and inebriation loosen tongues, so can this. Something tells me that Liuth holds many secrets from the beings who pass through here. Besides, did you not remind me, often, to be mindful of the living Force?>_

The shadow of a sigh. _< Be cautious, Padawan. I don’t like this.>_

_< For that matter, Master, neither do I.>_

* * *

Liuth is a study in contradictions through the Force: by turns an abundance of energy, welcoming, enfolding, and by equal measure something . . . untouchable. Isolated, shrouded in obfuscation far beyond the professional detachment with which Obi-Wan supposes those in Liuth’s line of work must approach their occupation. 

A descending shadow, the pattering of bare feet on stone . . . Reflexively he stands, murmuring a greeting to the Human who appraises him from the depths of clouded, sightless eyes.

“Eager, then?” Her voice is cheerful, kind, even if the inflections are sultry in a way that makes him distinctly uncomfortable—catching him more unawares than the realization that she _sees_ him through the Force: an ability relegated to the Miraluka of legend.

Obi-Wan bows slightly, finding old habits easy to fall back on. “I didn’t wish to seem rude by remaining seated; my apologies if I have caused any offense.”

“Why, love? None taken. Come on.”

She reaches out a hand—soft, warm, inviting—and as they climb the stairs together he catches the scent of the sweetwater with which she’s bathed. A luxury beyond imagining on such a world as this, but the effect isn’t unpleasant, and it strikes him that what clients come for is as much escape as comfort.

The room is somewhat spartan, but not austere: the bed is large and plush without being lost to overbearing pillows and heat-retaining blankets. There are chairs, three against the wall, beneath a small window; there is no glass, of course, but curtains are hung, blocking out the sunslight. In a corner rests a simple bureau, on which stands a lamp, and the light is enough to cast soft shadows at the backs of everything.

The door hisses shut behind them, mechanics creaking almost as badly as the joints of the protocol droid.

Liuth turns, and Obi-Wan studies her in the muted light: short and round, there is a delicate softness to her, enhanced by the play of lamplight against her ample frame. She wears nothing but a robe, cinched at the waist; it parts at her bosom and thighs—and from decency he averts his gaze.

Her lips quirk in a gentle smile; her hand, once, squeezes his. “You’re nervous, love. No need for that.”

He shucks off his pack and rests it at the door, considering his boots a moment.

“Leave them, love. Yes—just by the door there.”

 _< She has an uncanny . . . _sense _about these things, Master. The Force is strong with her. >_

_< Partially. And also, I suspect, because she has a great and abiding knowledge of a great many beings, and can trace the patterns of each individual’s idiosyncrasies . . . Tell me, Obi-Wan: do you expect her to simply repeat what the troopers said verbatim, if you ask?>_

_< Of course not. I imagine that she abides by a code of ethics . . . as do we. But it’s my hope that we can come to an agreement of some sort . . . in half an hour.> _Despite himself, he sighs.

 _< Ever the Negotiator.>_ The slightest shiver through the Force—incredulity, perhaps; laughter, almost. _< If I did not know of your skill, my young Padawan, I would think you only to be on a wild bantha chase.>_

“You alright, love?”

“Oh!” Obi-Wan tugs off his second boot, flashing her a smile that he’s sure carries through the Force: unseen is not always _unseen_ . . . “Forgive me. My mind wandered . . . the heat, I think . . . but yes—yes, I’m quite alright.”

“Hm. Come here then, now your boots are off.”

The bed is firm; beneath their weight, the frame does no more than give a creaking sigh. Obi-Wan keeps a respectful distance, although Liuth seems equally prudent; no doubt she wouldn’t wish to rush him into whatever this encounter might become, if she’s already caught the whispers of his nerves—if not for the reasons she suspects.

Now that they’re near each other, he can smell the heat of her body, the sweat, beneath the sweetwater. In some ways it’s comforting, more comforting than the artificiality of the room or the figure she cuts: not polished, not perfect, not by any means—nor should any of it be. He came here for no flight of fantasy.

She’s around his age, he realizes with a start; no amount of makeup can hide the faint lines at her brow, beneath her eyes, at the corners of her mouth—much like the scent of sweat beneath sweetwater, it’s a measure of solace.

“I must confess that I don’t quite know why I’m here.”

“Some don’t.” Liuth lays her hand against his thigh, just above his knee—a neutral gesture: soothing or evocative, depending on one’s wants. “But _something_ brought you here.”

“I heard your name mentioned.”

“Ah. Small place, Mos Eisley, in its own way. You’ve got the feel of one who’s seen more than this rock though, love. What brings you to Tatooine?”

“A promise.” Obi-Wan glances at her hand, considering how best to broach either subject: what he isn’t here for—or what, in fact, he is.

“Some promise that must be. Has it been worth your time?”

Obi-Wan considers a philosophical response before falling back upon simplicity: “More than I can say.”

“Good then. So—love—how about we make _this_ worth your time? You paid fifty credits, hey? What would you like?”

A breath: with the inhalation, he allows trepidation to flow through his body, to quicken his heart and dry his mouth; the exhalation releases it—all of it—the tension, the uncertainty—and when he looks upon Liuth again, his mind is clear.

Gently he rests his hand on hers.

“I am not here for . . . well.” A duck of his head. Half the truth? Or all of it? “My Order requires its members to be celibate.”

A nod: there is no laughter, no judgement in her face: at most, perhaps, mild curiosity. “Your ‘Order’—you’re a cleric, then? No robe to you, no sigil . . . hm . . . but you have that feel about you . . . ”

“Not quite. Something of a monk.” A soft catch of laughter. “I gave my robe away, to someone who needed it, many years ago.”

“Then begging your pardon, love, but what can _I_ do for you? I ask few questions of my clients, but I _do_ have morals, and I’d as soon not help a holy man to break his vows.” Liuth pauses, as if considering her words a moment, and Obi-Wan feels her hand abruptly clench beneath his own, her fingernails digging into the muscles of his thigh. “No disrespect, but if you’re here to harangue me—”

“No!” He squeezes her hand gently, lets the silence settle over them. Briefly he closes his eyes, slipping inconspicuously into the living Force, reaching for _her_ —the energy that was so elusive, finding it questioning, defensive, but not _quite_ so elusive now. He detects a recognition, an echo: more than their hands entwined, he knows she’s felt him now, as well as seen—

There is something to looking at a being through the Force, the physical energy emanating from them, the whispers of the midichlorians within their cells, all strung within the latticework, inextricable, that makes up all . . .

She shifts, fixing him with her sightless gaze, insofar as crude sight matters.

“No,” he affirms softly. “I am not here to judge. That I promise you.”

Visibly relaxed, Liuth gestures towards the expanse of the bed behind them, the scant pillows. “Do you mind, love? Only it’s been a long day, and a long night coming.”

“Please.”

He stands, offering a gentle touch, an arm, on which to brace herself as she settles back against the headboard, a sigh of relief at her lips. Obi-Wan sits at the foot of the bed, conscious of his distance, and lets the room sink into silence again. And then: “Can I . . . do anything for you, Liuth?”

“Mm?”

“Does anyone ever ask?”

A tilt of the head. “Some. Rare, though. Not that most are inconsiderate—but it’s professional, you know. I take care of them, but . . . you never get attached. So even if they ask me what I want, it’s . . . a calculation, I suppose. What do they _really_ want, when they ask what they can do for me? Why pay me to let them do the work as’d be appreciated by any lover, hm?”

“A lonely thing that is to carry.” His gaze catches on the bureau, upon which, next to the lamp, rests a small bowl filled with water and a rag. Yes—the sweetwater he smelled—

Rag and bowl in hand, he crouches at the bedside. “May I?”

“Ah—please, love. I came from a cold place. Some days I think the heat will be the death of me.”

Tenderly he wipes at her brow, trickling water that’s lukewarm at best across her skin, washing the sweat away. A glance at the stained rag reveals he’s rather foolishly removed most of her makeup as well. “Forgive me—”

An idle wave of her hand. “It doesn’t matter.” She shifts, half-loosening the robe before recollection slips across her face, anticipation fading in the shadow of utter mortification. “I . . .”

“It’s quite alright.” Obi-Wan sets about wringing the rag again, hoping to rinse out the worst of the pigment. Now that his hands have work, now that she knows who and what he is—and what he isn’t here for—all the awkwardness has fled. Compassion pulls at him, and if he cannot be a Jedi in all the ways he has been taught—then here, at least, here where no one would look . . . where no one would know . . .

Small and seemingly insignificant mercies . . .

“It wouldn’t be a . . . temptation?” A sly grin at the word, not unkind: banter of a familiar sort, almost.

“Not at all.”

Three short syllables, dropped like stones.

“Liuth, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“What do I have to hold against you, love? You’re a holy man. And anyway . . .” The robe’s slipped off; she stretches, eyes closed, purring as he begins to wash her—sparingly, as water is as precious here as life; just enough—just the murmur of moisture at her skin, the play of the air raising goosebumps along her limbs. “Anyway, you love him, hm?”

Obi-Wan glances at her, startled, before recognizing all-too-well the whispers through the Force: therein, Qui-Gon . . . both-and . . . more than his Master . . . present in all things . . .

“Fairly singing off you, love. Something like that you can’t miss. Like _light_ , all around you . . .”

True laughter, then, at Obi-Wan’s lips—laughter such as hasn’t shaken him in quite some time. “Yes, Light he is . . . very much so.”

_< And oh, how I love you.>_

And as Obi-Wan continues to wash Liuth, he feels Qui-Gon in the act itself—the water, the rag, the soft body of the woman beneath his fingertips; the palpable relief, to be cared for by another when so much of her life is _giving_.

“Where’d you get that gentleness?” Liuth’s hands clasp at his a moment, running over the knuckles and swollen veins, the calloused skin, the latticework of scars. “These hands’ve had a hard lot; I’d expect them of a soldier or a mercenary— _maybe_ a freight-runner, but that’s pushing it. You sure you’re a monk, then?”

A half-joke, perhaps. Obi-Wan shrugs, lets her hold his hand a while, cradling the bowl of sweetwater in his lap. “The Force has put me on an interesting path.”

“Hm. Not much talk of that out here. Seems more something you’d hear where _you’re_ from—nice Coruscanti play about your words. Neh, you don’t hear much about religion anymore, leastways out here. Not more’n superstition, anyway. Now the Empire’s here, makes me wonder if some of the old religions will come back.”

“Fear and doubt can lead to faith—that’s true—and faith in a great many things: the Darkness as well as the Light. Such is the Force; there are undercurrents of it in all beliefs, I think.”

“That’s why you’re the holy man.”

“A simple monk, no more.” Obi-Wan sighs, slips loose his hands, sets to work with the rag again, the smell of sweetwater filling the room. “I fear that the Empire will bring greater darkness down on Tatooine than the Hutts could ever wreak.”

“It’s scary. Those soldiers skulking through here . . . Well, blasters and guns, love. It’s the same always, everywhere, across the galaxy. Fighting and fun.”

“Ah. I find it odd that the Emperor would employ such men. Once, I heard, he had a Grand Army at his fingertips, when he was Chancellor and the Republic still stood.”

“Eight years ago, so the rumors say. Now he’s got a Sith Lord under his thumb, though— _he’s_ the one as heads the troops, proper. Story goes that same Sith Lord—before he, well, did whatever it is that they do—he fought in the Clone Wars. When innocent men across a thousand worlds could sleep in peace without fear of recruitment. All those soldiers then, they wore the face of a single man . . . what was his name . . .”

“Fett, I think?”

Liuth shakes her head. “Not Boba, although he’s making himself quite a name. Young kid, too, from what I’ve heard—sad lot, that is.”

—and the image comes to Obi-Wan, amidst the kaleidoscopic nightmare, of a boy crouching at the edge of an arena, the sand of Geonosis bloodied and sprawling with the bodies of innumerable Jedi, slain—and in young Boba’s hands, his father’s helmet (thank the Force not with Jango’s head inside)—

“Love. Hey. You still with me?”

The bowl’s shaking in his hands, water slopping at the rim. Obi-Wan draws on the Force, willing himself to the present, a shuddering breath enough to anchor him. He hopes. “Yes . . . The war brought much terror to the galaxy, as does the Emperor.”

“And that Sith Lord, yes.”

His grip tightens on the bowl, the rag, wrenching an unneeded rush of water to trickle down across Liuth’s belly.

_< Remember, Obi-Wan: what is past is past . . . >_

_< Who else?> _Obi-Wan nearly wants to scream, and the words are wrenched through the Force with nothing short of abject misery. The truth, dark and sidious, has wrapped itself around his heart—like that day, so many years ago, when the Force cried out at the deaths of thousands of Jedi—when he could not tear himself away from a security recording in the midst of the desecrated Temple—when he reached out to touch the still hand of a dead youngling, to close those glassy eyes—

_< Who else, Master?>_

“Hey, love.” Gently, the bowl taken from his hands, Liuth’s grip firm and warm and safe. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Obi-Wan lets the shudders course through him, the words tumbling out: “I live beyond the Jundland Wastes, Liuth. I don’t hear the rumors. This trip I make just once a year, and I . . .” He speaks too quickly—his voice that of a desperate man—(and not too far from truth is that)— “Does this Sith Lord have a name?”

“It’s just a _rumor_ , love.” Liuth’s face falls into shadows as a frown tugs at her lips, her brows knitting and furrows folding her forehead. “Suns, now I’ve gone and worried you . . . well. If I can’t give you nothing else for fifty creds and all . . . what’s a name?”

She reaches out, smoothing at his cheek with a hand, wondering how such a man as he came to her bedside. A monk with gentle eyes, scarred hands, a lover of the light—and from what she can tell, a tortured past: no one starts shaking like that if they’ve not seen something bad beyond telling.

“They say he’s called Vader.”

* * *

From a dust cloud had emerged a lone figure on a swoop; notoriously dodgy, the controls half-choked with sand, the stranger nevertheless piloted the bike to a halt with skill, appraising Owen with shadowed eyes.

Beru came out at the commotion, a wide grin flashing across her face when she recognized their visitor. How, exactly, Owen didn’t know, for the dust and the glare of the suns . . . but so it was, and now he sits at the kitchen table with his wife and a Jedi.

Obi-Wan takes a grateful drink of blue milk before folding his hands, head bowed for a moment in contemplation. “Please. We need to talk.”

“What are you doing here?” Owen scowls, although he isn’t sure yet if the spike in irritation is due to being dragged away from his work or the fact that the last time they sat thus, Beru and Luke had just been kidnapped by a band of Tusken raiders—and rescued by this stranger from the stars.

“Not that we aren’t happy to see you—ah—Ben,” Beru offers slowly. “But it’s unexpected.”

“Yes. Well. My travels took me to Mos Eisley, and I have some difficult news.”

A glance exchanged between husband and wife, and Owen’s scowl deepens. “We’ve heard rumors, but . . . we’re too far removed from Eisley or Espa to let them count for much. Bigger problems on our hands. Hell, I trust what I hear from the Jawas more than what I hear from neighbors.”

“Fair enough. They wouldn’t have as much to gain by sensationalizing truth, I suppose.” Obi-Wan purses his lips. “I have seen two troopers in Mos Eisley, and suspect they have a unit stationed somewhere on the planet, if not near the city.”

“Troopers?” Beru echoes faintly. “Clones?”

“No. These aren’t the clones utilized by the Republic—these are . . . men. Boys. Conscripts, I’m almost certain, coerced one way or another into fighting for the Empire.”

“And the Emperor,” Owen finishes coldly. “So your plan didn’t work. They’re here.”

“Not necessarily for Luke.” Obi-Wan holds out his hands, as if in supplication, knuckles scraping at the table. “Please, I’m not here to alarm you. I sense no disturbance in the Force—I don’t believe the Emperor—the Sith—have detected his presence. But . . . there’s more . . .”

A pause. “Where _is_ Luke?”

Beru glances out the door. “Owen let him take the speeder down to Beggar’s Canyon. The first time, too—by himself, I mean. He helped fix it, so . . . it seemed a fair trade. He’s been wanting to get the chance for years now—almost since you last saw him.” She shakes her head. “There’s so much of his father in him . . .”

“His father’s still alive.” Obi-Wan drops his gaze a moment, struggling to articulate the truth without giving voice to the beast gnawing at his heart, the thoughts he can scarcely register his own. “Anakin—Vader.”

“How do you know?” Beru whispers.

“How did you not ‘ _sense’_ it?” Owen sneers. “Our nephew’s _life_ is in danger, it hangs on _your_ shoulders, _you_ brought him here, you promised that you’d keep him _safe_ but _now_ —now suddenly you know that his father’s still alive and there are troopers in _Mos Eisley_? What in the _hell_ have you been _doing_?”

And Obi-Wan can’t help but half-smile at the tirade; how could Owen know that his own mind, during the ride from Mos Eisley, has spun far worse? That the years, the nightmares, have all twisted his heart in vice-like thorns? No—far better, anyway, that the young man lose his temper now, than let it fester—

“We’ve told Luke that his father’s dead,” Beru adds quietly, pressing fingers to her temples. “Of course, we haven’t told him who his father was, but—”

“There will be time enough for truth, when he is older.” The self-sacrificial, compassionate smile at the Jedi’s lips falters, shadowing a frown. “But for now, he should not be allowed to venture out alone . . .”

Owen sighs, holds his head in his hands for a moment. “I am a simple man, J—” Frustration tears the word, the unvoiced syllable hanging in the air. “I didn’t want this. I don’t want this. I care for Luke because he is as good my own flesh and blood but when we . . . when you came to us . . .” A shuddering breath, then bloodshot eyes flick up to meet Obi-Wan’s, and then his wife’s. “I’m just a moisture farmer.”

“No single man will bring down the Empire,” Obi-Wan murmurs. “It will take the work of many hands, just as it took the work of many to sustain the Republic—and betray it. You need not carry this alone, Owen.”

* * *

Luke, all of eight years old and barely able to see above the console of the speeder, throws back his head and yells: the universal cry of the victor, triumphant. The rusted speeder coughs, the yoke terse in his hands—vibrations ricocheting up his arms—but Uncle Owen’s taught him how to coax it into behaving itself, almost like a pet. A hitch at the throttle, the engine half-cut, and the speeder whines to life again, back in his control.

The canyon is narrow, full of hairpin turns, the suns casting doubled shadows: treacherous at best. The speeder is large and clunky, but Luke manages to traverse them all, some instinct guiding him—something that catches his breath, that thrums with the blood in his veins, the hammer of his heart. He’s felt this way only once that he can remember, cradled in the arms of a stranger and swathed in this _unknown_ that he could never, ever tell his aunt and uncle about . . . But it is _real_ , and as he urges the speeder to its utmost, he realizes that he’s never felt quite so alive—nor quite so whole, as if he _is_ the speeder, the suns, the desert, the sand, the stones . . .

And something somber settles in him; joy still wraps itself around his heart, of course—he’s still a child, after all—but there is also great solemnity—

And Luke Skywalker closes his eyes, and breathes, and _is_ , and the speeder tears through the canyon, a blur, a flash, a passing shadow—a gleam of light.

* * *

Until a shot rings out from the cliffs above—a sharp report—the ancient song of metal and powder, hammer and spark—and again—and the speeder kicks beneath Luke’s hands—with a cry of dismay he blinks trails of fire from his eyes, dull and deadly, choking on smoke—

While the speeder whines and careens out of control, the engines shot, momentum barrelling him towards unsympathetic arms of stone.

* * *

A lone Tusken warrior hefts his rifle, satisfied; three years ago an offworlder had shown up to their camp in that very craft—the memory of it was burned into his brain—all to rescue a female and a child. Perhaps his memory is faulty, but he swears that the shock of blonde hair, the joyous face, are all but the same--that the boy is the same—for it was the boy, after all, that the devil had come to protect. The raider’s leg still aches on cold nights from the blaster wound that never fully healed, and if he cannot kill the devil—well—then the child is good enough.

* * *

"Luke."

Through a sickened haze, Luke Skywalker opens his eyes. Everything shimmers in heat and flame and smoke, the glare of the suns, the twinned shadows of the rocks. His body feels distant, as if he looks down upon himself, or his mind is trapped within a form not wholly his own . . .

But through the play of gut-twisting light and the shadow of unconsciousness there comes a form . . . a man . . . soft-edged, swirling with a pale blue light . . . Luke frowns . . . he has seen him before . . . yes, just once . . . standing with both hands on the shoulders of the stranger who’d saved him and Aunt Beru, when he was five . . . Around the man pulses the same sweet energy as he’d felt before, when he’d been as one with the desert and the speeder and the canyons and the sun—soft-soothing-hope—

The man has a stern face, but when he looks upon Luke his countenance bears only gentleness. "Someone will come shortly, Luke. A friend."

Chapped lips and a swollen tongue try to form words, cannot. Tears squeeze out of sluggish eyes. _I’m afraid. It hurts._

Specter that he is, somehow Luke finds himself wrapped up in the stranger’s arms, or cradled by the light, when his mind again slips from his body and consciousness leaves him.

* * *

Smoke rises from the canyon; Obi-Wan thumbs the swoop faster, hunched over the handlebars, almost certain that in the roaring of the wind he can hear the Force whispering: _Hurry._

* * *

_< He is alive, but injured. The speeder crashed, but I’m not sure why.>_

_< Thank you, Master. Stay with him—>_

_< The Force is in all things. Always.>_

* * *

The speeder is indeed something of a wreck; flames lick at the paltry windshield, the hull, electricity sizzling at the console and plumes of smoke cast into the azure sky. Obi-Wan flings himself from the swoop as soon as the engine’s cut. Tenderly he gathers the unconscious body of Luke in his arms; his energy is strong, and from a cursory glance it appears as if he’s simply been knocked out.

Reflexively wiping at a soot-smudge on the child’s cheek, Obi-Wan sits down next to the swoop bike, seeking refuge in the deep-cast shade. Soaking the sleeve of his tunic with water—precious, rationed, hard-won from the desert—he strokes Luke’s forehead, noting the track of crusted blood that matts his hair—but the wound must be shallow, for the blood to clot so soon . . .

He cannot risk calling upon the Force outright, and for a brief moment a feeling of utter helplessness, ineptitude, washes over him . . . Tentatively, as little as a whisper, he simply reaches for the Light, slipping into it as water, searching, reaching for the child, willing him to wake.

* * *

Luke feels, first, the stranger’s arms, and for a moment wonders if it’s just a memory—no more than a dream, it seems, but clear as day . . . And then, slowly, into focus swims a face: bearded, careworn, but glowing with that strange, strange light and every bit as kind as he remembers . . . yes, this man the same . . .

“Hello there.” Softly, with a gentle smile, as if he knows that sound sends pain crackling through the child’s head. “Rest easy, son. It’s alright. Don’t try to move just yet.”

“The—the speeder—”

“Is mendable. But don’t worry about that. You’re fortunate to be all in one piece, yourself.”

“My head . . . it hurts.”

“Yes . . . we’ll have to see to that.”

 The stranger shifts, a slight and subtle thing, reaching for something clipped onto his belt. Even that motion is enough to leave Luke reeling with vertigo, gagging; a large, gentle hand rubs at his back and murmurs soothing words until at last the vomiting subsides.

“I’m—sorry,” Luke gasps, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, loathing the reflexive tears running down his face. “I’m—so—sorry . . .”

“Shh. It’s quite alright. Here, now . . .”

A canteen is pressed into his hand; the water is lukewarm but pure, washing the bitterness of bile from his tongue. It’s a strong temptation to drink it all. But a gentle word from the stranger stops him. “Not too much, not yet.”

Some of the fog seems to be lifting from Luke’s head; he glances at the stranger shyly. “Who are you? Why are you helping me, mister?”

 “I’m Ben.” A pause, a moment of silence too long, while the stranger’s brows furrow, as if he’s considering something quite carefully indeed before he speaks again. “Do you remember me? You were five, and some Tusken raiders came.”

“Yeah.” Luke’s tongue worries at his swollen lip, turning the matter over carefully. “And you saved us . . . you had this _laser sword_ and—”

“Hush now. Best not to get excited. Your body needs its rest, and for that we need to get you home.”

“It’s weird,” Luke murmurs from his arms as Ben cautiously rises to his feet. “I _feel_ getting better.”

“Hm.” A low chuckle; the odd turn of phrase strikes a curious chord. “Now then, Luke, we’ll need to take the swoop back. I’m going to go slowly, so it will take a little while; I know you’re feeling tired, but you _must_ stay awake. Can you do that for me?”

“I think so.”

Beneath him, he feels Ben’s chest heave in a sigh. “Good.”

* * *

“Owen—they’re back.”

From her lookout at the door, shielding her eyes against the suns, Beru spots a dust cloud at the horizon. She can’t see who or what’s causing it, but something in her heart whispers that it’s them. At her side in an instant is her husband, his breath caught in a muttered curse of relief. Together they glance back at the kitchen table, where the scattered contents of a medkit lie in wait. It’s all they have, and the nearest medical center is in Mos Eisley—too distant a trip to make on the swoop, if Luke’s injuries are beyond their care. The speeder was all they had . . .

“Ben can heal him, if he’s hurt,” Beru whispers finally.

“Not if . . . doing _that_ . . . is like a homing beacon.” Owen shakes his head. “Might bring the Empire down on our heads. He’ll have to be more careful than he’s been—we’re on our own, Beru.”

Yes—the remnants of the medkit will have to be enough.

* * *

Owen and Obi-Wan stand at the threshold to the domicile, half-framed in light, staring out into the night-cast desert. Luke has fallen into a restful sleep, Beru at his bedside to wake him up every few hours, making sure he remains stable.

“I would be happy to leave you the swoop,” Obi-Wan offers finally, casting Owen a furtive glance. “I'm sure its owner wouldn't mind . . . Should you need to travel to Mos Eisley for a medic . . .”

“We’ll be fine.”

“Owen, with all due respect—”

“We don’t _need_ your _help_.” Owen turns, and if his face is a mask of anger, it’s the fear in his eyes that betrays him. “I don’t know much about your religion, but Anakin used to talk about feeling things, sensing things, through the Force. How he felt his mother. So. Tell me. How the _hell_ could you not ‘sense’ that he was alive?”

A slow inhalation. “I don’t know. I . . . Owen, it’s complicated. When Anakin fell to the Dark Side, he . . . the man I knew was gone. He became someone else, _something_ else, entirely. I truly believed he was dead.”

“Well he’s not. And what’s to keep him from sensing you? Or Luke? And now the Empire’s here, troopers and all, so it’s not just an idle hope, is it? Hoping they don’t find us? No. It’s _real_ now.”

“It always has been.” Obi-Wan bows his head. “As for An—Vader sensing Luke . . . Owen, I don’t think he knows the children are alive. I suspect—I hope, even—that he thinks they . . .”

He can’t finish the thought, lets it drift into the darkness.

“So what do we do now?”

Obi-Wan folds his arms, tucking his hands into the sleeves of the tunic that once belonged to Owen’s father; it’s large enough, almost, to fit him not unlike a robe, and the gesture is somehow self-soothing. “Let me train Luke. Now that the Empire’s here, it can’t be put off any longer. I understand your fears, Owen, I do, but keeping the boy in the dark won’t make this go away.”

“’In the dark’ is just what I’m afraid of.” Owen exhales through clenched teeth, stares at his feet. “Besides, who’s to say that your training him wouldn’t draw them right to us?”

“That’s a risk, but there’s always been a risk we could be found. Better to take what action we can now that we’re pushed to it than—”

“No.”

Owen’s hands lash out, grasp his shoulders with surprising strength—enough to send spikes of pain throughout the Jedi’s body. “No. You listen to me. You stay away from us. You hear me? Leave us the hell alone. I’m done with you. You’re a liability to us. If not Luke, they’ll come for _you_ , Jedi.”

With a grunt he throws his weight against the taller man’s; Obi-Wan passively accepts the blow, lets the momentum carry him, staggering—but he does not fall. He simply stares at Owen for several moments—backlit by the glow pouring form the domicile, it’s difficult to read his expression, but it doesn’t matter; Obi-Wan knows well what he would see.

Silence, then, save for the ragged rasp of Owen’s breathing and the keening of the winds. There is nothing more to say. Obi-Wan inclines his head, then turns to step into the darkness.

* * *

Little slivers of light are all that slant from the windows of the brothel; Obi-Wan steps in, finds the waiting room full—chairs taken, beings leaning against the walls. No one speaks. No one looks at each other. The air is somber, impersonal, businesslike; it reminds Obi-Wan, almost, of camps erected in the field during the war, where privacy was a luxury no one could afford.

Quietly he stands at the door, waiting, watching, until Liuth descends the staircase, preceded by—of all beings—the strange musician from the cantina, his instrument slung across his back by a strap. For a fractional moment she pauses, her sightless gaze boring through him; a subtle nod, no more, before she calls to her next client.

The protocol droid eyes him balefully. “How may I be of service, sir?”

A keycard scrapes across the desk. “Please ensure Liuth gets this.”

The droid examines the card briskly, but thankfully makes no mention of the fact that it's the key to the swoop--the swoop Liuth hasn't used since she lost her sight but somehow can't bear to part with. “Of course, sir. Is there anything else I can help you with? Liuth is engaged for the rest of the night, but we have three other—”

“No, that’s all. Thank you.”

* * *

_< It will take you all night to walk back.>_

_< A Jedi has no home—and now even the Temple’s gone. I have no love for that hovel, Master. What’s one night in the desert?> _Obi-Wan almost laughs, but there’s a bitterness against his tongue that instead twists his lips into a grimace. _< I’m not opposed to it. I need to think.>_

_< Thinking may be the last thing you need. You’ve had too much time with your memories as it is.>_

A shaking hand reaches up to brush sodden bangs away from his brow; his own body heat dispels the usual chill of the desert’s night but the remaining sheen of sweat does him no favors. _< I wonder about Liuth, Master. She’s strong in the Force . . . I wonder what her life might have been, if the Jedi had discovered her. And why we didn’t.>_

 _< If it weighs on your conscience that she engages in the work she does when you envision what she _might _have been, then let me remind you that she is_ alive _, Obi-Wan. And that is more than one could hope for if she’d become a Jedi. >_

The truth of that is as good as a blow to the chest and he stumbles, fighting for purchase in the shifting sands. Images of the Temple flicker through his mind—the younglings, dead—the Padawans—even the Weapons Master . . . images, too, from his own mind; things he never saw in flesh: friends, allies, slain. Bant, her gentle silver eyes glassy, lifeless—

And the face of the man who’d wrought their deaths—shifting—the boy—the Padawan—the Hero With No Fear—and then, too, the twisted face with yellow eyes—burning alive—

A slow breath relieves the knot in his throat, quiets the sickness tearing at his gut.

 _< I left him to the will of the Force on Mustafar . . . Master. Tell me. How can _this _be what the Force wills? >_

Beside him, the gossamer figure of Qui-Gon pauses, fixes him with a look of utter sorrow. _< That I do not know. The Sith believe that the Dark Side of the Force both blesses them and curses them; they believe they can subjugate it, bend it to their will, and if their plans succeed—well, then, they have been blessed. If they fail, they are not worthy. What has happened is as much the will of Sidious as anything, and if he believes he has been blessed—if he believes his apprentice has been blessed . . . >_

_< Did you know, Master?>_

A nod, no more. Qui-Gon’s form is as bright as the stars, it seems, and as dark as the vaulted pitch-black sky.

_< Why didn’t you tell me?>_

_< I only wish I had.>_

Obi-Wan stops, stares at Qui-Gon, disbelieving but for the raw pain that comes to him through the Force: of the regrets his Master has, the information he wishes he’d shared, the decisions he’d cast differently, this, perhaps, is the heaviest of all. And whatever anger he may have felt, whatever frustration, whatever agony his own as was rapidly welling to the surface of his heart is gone: he cannot look at Qui-Gon and hold onto it . . .

And perhaps, in kind, it is as much the anger he bears towards himself—but he looks at Qui-Gon and finds that he can’t hold that, either. Not as once he did.

_< It’s been eight years, Master. How can I not have felt him?>_

_< The man you knew is all but gone. Master Yoda was right about that. If you were to reach for Anakin through the Force, what would you find but that which hardly exists? No, Obi-Wan: you mustn’t blame yourself for not sensing that he’s still alive . . . he is more machine than man . . ._

_< And yet there is, I think, something of Anakin left—but whatever that might be, it’s beyond your reach.  You will not be his salvation.>_

_< No.> _The truth he’s known since the child was born, but the shadow of the Empire, tangible at last, has cast it into sharp relief. _ <It will be Luke.>_

They walk for some time in silence, Obi-Wan half-lost to the savage currents of the living Force, buffeted and tossed as if he were adrift in the rapids of a river. He turns over in his mind the horror, dares not envision what Vader must be—or where in whatever shell there is dwells Anakin Skywalker. He thinks, too, of Luke: just about Anakin’s age when Qui-Gon found him, and with an equally heavy destiny upon his shoulders. If he cannot train the boy, how, how can he hope that Luke will bear it, when the time comes?

* * *

_< Where the Force is, there is hope, my young Padawan—and the Force is everywhere.>_

* * *

And he feels his Master’s presence, too: the song of the cosmic Force, as if an embrace—and if Qui-Gon cannot walk this world with him in flesh again, as once he did, here still he is, and the arms wrapped around him—the form and the Light—must be enough to sustain him through the night.

* * *

Light tempers shadows, always: darkness is a patient, all-pervasive beast but it takes a single spark to break it.

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't figure out who'd be playing in the cantina besides the Modal Nodes, so I shamelessly mooched the visi-sonor from Isaac Asimov's _Foundation and Empire_. And I also _may_ have borrowed a quote of Rorschach's (from _Watchmen_ / the genius of Alan Moore).
> 
> Additional props to James Luceno's _Darth Plagueis_ , which was a fascinating insight into the philosophy of the Sith (as well as an extraordinarily intellectual treatment of the midichlorians. Who knew that could happen?). He also writes of the Jedi as if they're a monastic order, which I deeply appreciate. <3


End file.
